


Bottom Of The Bottle

by muridae



Category: Legion of Super-Heroes (Comics)
Genre: Five Year Gap, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 00:01:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19896553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muridae/pseuds/muridae
Summary: You can't find a decent brew of Silverale anywhere. After walking away from the Legion, Jo Nah makes it his mission to change that.





	Bottom Of The Bottle

Ultra Boy wondered if perhaps he should have stayed longer.

He and Phantom Girl had talked about resigning. Not when the first EarthGov laws were passed, because back then the Legion had been more irritated and insulted than angry and had wanted to do their job in the face of it, to the absolute letter of the law, just to show that they could. But then the red tape had made it impossible to do something as straightforward as hold a new leadership election, and the lawsuits had started, and even though they’d won every case it was getting more and more difficult to actually go out there every day and make a difference. And with people like Laurel and Imra and Cham gone, some of the heart had gone out of the Legion. Shadow Lass had never come back, of course. They heard from Tasmia occasionally, as she shuttled Mon-El from one medical facility to the next, still grimly determined to find him a cure.

They’d talked about it again when they’d started planning the wedding, and again when Projectra had resigned to return to Orando, but then Tinya herself had gone missing on the way back from a visit to her family on Bgztl and none of it had really seemed to matter any more.

He’d stuck with the Legion throughout the long, long month of searching in vain for any sign of Tinya in the interdimensional void. He’d pulled every string he could until it snapped off in his hand, insisting that the investigation be taken out of the hands of that dolt Dvron and given to the S.P. Proper. He’d called everyone he could to beg that they not stop searching, until even Tinya’s mother stopped returning his comm messages.

But the search had been called off anyway, and the thought of the week of memorial services, both on Earth and on Bgztl, was more than he could stomach. He handed in his resignation, put on his most stoic expression to see him through the excruciating ceremony on Shanghalla, and bought himself a ticket back to Rimbor.

By then he’d started drinking, and he was beginning to enjoy it.

* * *

It took three long weeks and five merchant ships to make it back to Rimbor. The interplanetary routes were intermittent and fragmented after the economic collapse. He spent most of them curled around a bottle in his cabin.

Not having drunk much other than synthahol since he left his wild youthful days in Liberty City behind him, he was indiscriminate in his sampling, trying different bottles at random, trying to figure out his likes and dislikes. He didn’t think he much cared for any of them, except that if he drank the right amount and kept his invulnerability switched off while doing it, sometimes he could sleep through the night.

The final vessel had a bar, so while he had no desire to socialise with the crew or the handful of other passengers, he did venture out a time or two to sample what it had to offer. The barman was, thankfully, a taciturn man who left his customers alone if they didn’t invite conversation, and who didn’t offer commiserations on his loss. He’d come to hate the commiserations.

On the second night he spotted the tall silver flask with the red piping peeking out from the other bottles. “Is that Silverale you’ve got up there?”

The barman squinted at it. “Yes. Not a lot of call for it, but of course Rimbor’s on our trade route so we like to have some behind the bar just in case someone feels nostalgic for home.”

“I’m feeling at least a little nostalgic. Pour me a glass, would you?”

It tasted like mildewed leaves, left to stew too long. Which probably accounted for why there wasn’t much demand for it. Clearly it didn’t travel well, but he promised himself a drink from a fresher bottle once he was home and settled in.

* * *

Fil was still around, but most of his friends were gone. Some were even dead, which figured, given the lives they’d led on the street and in the gangs. He guessed that could have been him too, if he’d stayed. He thought he’d rather it’d been him than Tinya.

All of his drive and will had gone into getting him to this place. Once on Rimbor, having found himself a small, shabby, but not badly maintained place in Liberty City from a recommendation by Fil, he found that he had no real plans, no work, no interest in play.

And the Silverale still tasted like stale grass.

That wasn’t his recollection from the days of his youth, but then they’d been running the good stuff, the moonshine, rather than the tightly controlled “official” production owned by Silverale Ltd, so that was what they had drunk as well. He wondered if the memory of the blissful taste was nostalgia, and he’d find that his memory was playing tricks on him about the home brewed version too.

In the absence of anything else, it became his life’s mission to satisfy his curiosity.

He could have asked Fil, who’d definitely have the contacts, but he fancied giving his old Legion investigative skills a workout. He was sure he could track down the right sort of bar. There was one down a narrow alley near the back of his building, a darkly shadowed narrow run with overhanging buildings built of crumbling brick, rusted steel and peeling plaster. It had a permanent stench of urine. He suspected the wall of the tavern got used as an unofficial toilet.

Inside was equally shady, but in rather better repair. The wooden surface of the bar was battered, but gleamed with polish, and the mirrors behind the bar showed a clear reflection rather than tarnish and cobwebs.

“What can I get you?” asked the bartender as he tucked his long legs around an empty barstool, and propped his elbows on the bar. She was darkly pretty, with long curly hair.

“Silverale. If you’ve got it.”

“We’re on Rimbor. Of course we serve Silverale. Off the beaten track a bit, aren’t you? The tourists normally stick to the brighter lights.”

He was dressed like a Rimborian, he knew, since he’d always maintained the style for off duty wear. But his clothing had been made in Metropolis, and clearly it showed. He’d been away too long. And because he’d been pegged as a tourist, she’d served him from the official bottle. He grimaced, but sipped at it anyway, wondering how to work the conversation around to the black market stuff.

“I’ll have another kono juice,” announced the kid at the other end of the bar. He glanced up at her, just a casual checking out, since she seemed a bit young to be frequenting this kind of place. Short, with jaundiced looking skin and a liberal sprinkling of freckles, and vivid blue and pink hair. Sklarian, at a guess. But she couldn’t have been a day over twelve.

“Are you’re sure you’ve not had enough?” asked the bartender. Offhand, maybe a little maternal, but not enough for the girl to take offence at it. She poured her a refill from a jug behind the bar, and Jo caught the faint whiff of an aroma he recognised.

Definitely not kono juice.

“I’ll make this the last one. Thanks, Ginny.” She took an appreciative swig. He got down off his chair, took a step over, and put a hand around hers to steady the glass and bring it closer to his nose. She looked up, startled and a little nervous.

Did she have reason to be? He wasn’t sure. She was very young, true, but she seemed to be drinking in moderation and under the watchful eye of a bartender who’d enforce that, and it would be foolish to scare her away. She’d only go somewhere else, probably somewhere less safe. And he hadn’t been _that_ much older than her when he’d had his first drink himself.

He inhaled appreciatively, savouring the aroma. Yes. This was the good stuff.

“That smells like a particularly excellent brand of kono juice,” he said, releasing his hand from her glass. The apprehension slowly died from her eyes. “I take it that it tastes as good? I think I’ll have some of the same for my next drink. If you would, bartender?”

Ginny the bartender had pretty eyes too, he noticed, as she poured a generous measure into a fresh glass and gave it to him. He pushed some credits across the bar, nodded his thanks, and took a slow, appreciative sip, letting the taste spread across his tongue.

The organic elements were still there, from the petals the Silverale was distilled from, but this back alley version had the smooth creaminess of the real thing. His palate approved, and he took another sip.

“Good stuff,” he said to Ginny. “My complements to the brewers. It’s been a long time since I tasted, um, kono juice this good.”

She looked curious now, maybe a little wary. “You’re not a tourist, are you?”

“No. Rimborian born. Though I’ve been away from home a long time.” He took another sip. Nass, but if everyone was forced to drink the corporate horse swill, no wonder there was so much misery in the world. It’d be very tempting to get back into his old smuggling ways, spread a little of the good stuff around. Not via the gangs though, not this time. Just a little old fashioned under the counter commerce.

“I know who you are now,” said the girl, staring. “You’re that Legionnaire.”

“ _Was_ that Legionnaire. Not any more. Retired.”

“I thought you were the law,” said Ginny. “It’s why I served you the other stuff.”

“Yes, well, I guess I _have_ been the law, in my time, but I’m not any longer. So you can apologise best by pouring me another glass. Oh, and pour one for yourself while you’re at it.”


End file.
